


the edges of things

by sunnydaisy



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: College AU, F/M, Human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnydaisy/pseuds/sunnydaisy
Summary: As I was crawling into bed last night,He said, “You’re drunk.”I said, “How do you know?”He said, “You live next door.”
Relationships: Caroline Forbes/Klaus Mikaelson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 297





	1. summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration taken from this [tweet](https://twitter.com/ceraldi_carleen/status/1231727331263139840), beta provided by the incomparable [alienor_woods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods)

**summer**

It’s really all Elena Gilbert’s fault for letting her drink that much Maker’s Mark.

Caroline squints at the quiet street in front of her before squaring her shoulders determinedly. This street is most definitely hers, she decides, because she recognizes the tall magnolia tree that hulks over a few of the houses, its shadow long and looming. Now if she can just remember if hers is on the _left_ or the _right_ of the tree—

(She doesn’t even particularly _like_ Maker’s, Caroline thinks grumpily, and she distinctly remembers shouting this directly into her friend’s ear. Yet Elena had waved off her protests like they were nothing more than gnats. “Caroline,” she had shouted back over the thumping music, “who gives a shit? They—” Elena had pointed at a group of guys with the same swooping hair and polo shirts of varying pastels, “—are buying. We’re getting the good stuff tonight, girl!” Elena had then snorted, muttering something under her breath that had sounded a lot like _fucking freshmen._ )

So yeah. Too much Maker’s, minus the food she _didn’t_ eat before going out, plus the line of identical suburban houses with identical doors in the only neighborhood she and Elena had found for their senior year that was close enough to campus without feeling like you were up the university’s ass—well. It’s no wonder she finds herself in the predicament she’s in.

If only the fucking HOA had let her paint their front door turquoise like she’d _asked—_

.

.

.

Drunk sleep sucks, but drunk _falling_ asleep is actually quite nice, Caroline decides happily. The world spins just enough to be relaxing, her eyelids feel slightly weighted, and the sheets are soft and cool against her legs.

In a moment of clarity, she reaches towards the nightstand for her phone charger and her hands end up rooting around longer than her staggeringly drunk brain can handle. She gives up, rolling back onto her back and exhaling as the room gently rocks her to sleep.

.

.

.

“You’re drunk,” a pleasant, British-accented voice observes from very far away.

She _is_ , but still she bristles. “How d’you know?” she mumbles defensively, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Because,” and the voice is closer now, “you live next door.”

Caroline’s already asleep again.

.

.

.

She wakes up, really wakes up, and the first thing she notices as she sits up is that _this is not her room_. 

It almost is, but not quite. The differences are small—too small, apparently, for those who are highly intoxicated to notice, but now that she can focus her eyes, they jump out at her immediately. 

The layout is the same: the large window across from the bed, the mostly shut door on the opposite wall, the black ceiling fan hanging from the sloping ceiling. But the sunlight from the window falls all wrong on the floor, the fan is spinning at too low a speed, and Caroline never leaves her door open when she’s sleeping.

Slowly, carefully, she tiptoes out of the bed. Her shoes and jeans lay on the floor and she feels a brief flare of pure panic—oh _god_ had she gone home with one of those dumb freshmen? But the memory strikes quickly: she had stumbled herself out of both in this exact spot and crawled in to the bed, all very much _alone_. The tightness in her chest eases and she quickly collects her things, slipping back into her jeans and letting her flats dangle from her fingers.

Feeling less exposed with her pants on, Caroline takes stock of the bedroom that is at once so similar and so different from her own.

The sheets are dark brown, the comforter a plaid of varying shades of blue. (She seriously has no clue how she missed that. Her own are both _yellow paisley_.) They feel different too, these sheets. They are softer than hers, with a gentle sheen that suggests quality, suggests _money_ ; which she most certainly does not have to drop on bedsheets, of all things. She looks around cautiously, her neck stiff and the pounding in her head protesting every movement.

The rest of the furniture is made of heavy, dark wood; it’s much too solid to be mistaken for her own flimsy IKEA pieces. The desk shoved unceremoniously into one corner has carved clawed feet, for god’s sake, and there is actual artwork on the walls. She’s sure a closer look would tell her that it’s all original, too, unlike the mass-produced canvases from Target that hung on her own walls.

Caroline cautiously peeks through the blinds, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight that pierces through the slats. The view from the window is incredibly familiar, enough so that she briefly entertains the possibility that she had maybe stumbled drunkenly into an alternate universe last night. But it’s just different enough to dissuade that idea: the yard of her annoying frat bro neighbors across the street isn’t as centered in this window as it is in her own and the magnolia tree is on the wrong side of the window—

There’s a knock at the door just as she’s realizing with humiliating, _excruciating_ certainty what’s happened. The mistake she had made while stumbling past the line of houses on her street.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” says the same pleasant, British accented voice from the night before.

.

.

.

To his credit, Nik from Next Door, as her deeply hungover brain has now dubbed him, looks mostly amused instead of disturbed.

“Oh my _god_ ,” she moans, rubbing her hands over her face. Maybe if she concentrates hard enough she can teleport herself out of his house and into her own; or if she’s really lucky (she never is), time travel back to last night so she can stop herself from taking her fourth shot of Maker’s. “I’m an assaulter. I’ve assaulted someone. I’ve assaulted _you_ and you’re being _nice_ to me!”

“Hardly assault,” he reasons rationally, offering her a cup of coffee. She takes it but doesn’t drink it, instead setting the mug down (the loopy script on the side reads GO VIRAL with what look to be a tiny, anthropomorphic germs drawn below the words) in front of her on the granite countertop that matches her own. “I spent last night in the guest bedroom—”

“Because I _assaulted you!_ ”

“—so unless you’ve mastered the art of being in two places at once, which seems highly unlikely,” he shrugs and flashes her a grin that in literally any other situation she’d find impossibly charming. His hand comes up to rest atop his heart. “I can assure you that my honor remains unimpeached.”

She gapes at him. “I basically _broke into_ your house—”

“Ah, we’ve graduated from assault to B&E.”

“—and _assaulted_ you—”

“Spoke too soon,” Nik from Next Door sighs, casting his eyes heavenward as though beseeching some higher power for patience.

“—you should call the _police_!”

“Caroline,” he says, leaning forward, his hands clasped together in prayer position. “I am not calling the police, who are likely quite busy with actual crimes, to tell them that my next-door neighbor mistook my house for hers, entered when she found the door unlocked, and fell asleep in what she thought was her own bed.”

She groans and drops her head into her hands. “This is easily the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my entire life,” she informs him, the heel of her hands pressing into her brow bone. “ _Easily_ ,” she reiterates, her face flushing. 

He sounds physically pained as he says, “I once passed out in my own backyard after too much bourbon, so believe me when I tell you that you have nothing to be embarrassed for. Everyone has a story like this.”

Caroline exhales slowly. The feeling of it is bizarrely comforting. “They do _not_ but whatever. Also, you know you should _really_ lock your door,” she admonishes sternly from the safety of her tightly shut fingers. “Men have it so easy. You could have been _kidnapped_.”

“That seems like the least of what could have happened,” he points out gravely, “considering how I was the victim of both breaking and entering _and_ assault last night.”

She sputters with all the dignity of a fish out of water.

.

.

.

It doesn’t occur to Caroline that she never told him her name.

.

.

.

Nik from Next Door is a doctoral student in the virology department, she learns from the books that sit on the built-in shelving in his living room that mirrors her own; and he’s lived in this house for two years. She wrinkles her nose. “How come I’ve never seen you around before?”

“Unfortunately for me,” he drawls, “I spend most of my days either in the lab, the library, or the basement of Shoaker Hall.” He runs a hand through his hair, which is, she notices, thick and wavy and that dark shade of blonde that’s just this side of being brown.

“But, like, how do you not have a roommate? The rent in this neighborhood is expensive AF.” She should know, she and Elena had agonized over the numbers for a solid three weeks before signing their lease.

He laughs at that. “Stipend. The university pays me to teach freshmen biology for non-majors and a few of the graduate level labs in exchange for research and their name on any papers I publish during my time here.”

She’s pretty sure it has to be more than that. The expensive furniture and sheets, not to mention the fancy coffee he’d brewed, all indicate that he comes from money. But she doesn’t say anything, instead nodding sagely. “Kinda like how they pay for my tuition in exchange for back tuck back handsprings on the sidelines of football games.”

“Indeed,” he agrees good naturedly before her phone beeps from its spot on the coffee table. She sends Nik a slightly apologetic smile before going to retrieve it.

It’s a text from Elena, asking if she made it home okay last night, and oh by the way, _she_ had actually gone home with her shitty ex _Damon_. Also, unrelatedly, did they have copious amounts of Whiteclaw at the house? She has some sorrows to drown.

Caroline scowls down at her screen before tapping out a brief message and hitting send.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who made errors in judgement last night,” she gripes to Nik, who had been looking studiously at his feet. At the sound of her voice, he looks up and raises his eyebrows in question. She elaborates, “My roommate. She went home with her ex, who I hate. Who _she_ hates, actually.” Caroline shakes her head. “I think a little light B&E is preferable.”

And oh _fuck_ , if Elena is only just now on her way home—

“Shit, I gotta go,” she exclaims, tucking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and hunting for her keys. Both of Nik’s eyebrows have climbed up his forehead, and it’s entirely unfair that he still looks freaking _hot—_

“I have a dog,” she explains hurriedly, spying her keys on his living room table. “And if neither of us made it home last night, he’s probably snacking on the blinds and we’ve already replaced them _twice_.”

.

.

.

Caroline takes Milo on a long walk, ending up back on campus before she realizes where her feet have taken her. The late August sun’s warmth on her face and the contented wag of Milo’s tail go a long way as far as hangover cures go. Her headache has almost completely vanished.

That, plus the food truck with the giant pretzels she loves is currently parked on the corner. There’s an extra bounce in her step as she leads Milo over to the small line that has formed.

When it’s her turn, she buys two and asks for extra cheese ( _not_ the beer cheese, she specifies, even though it’s normally her favorite; her stomach rolls at the word _beer_ ).

She knocks on Nik’s door—she really should have noticed last night that his welcome mat is a simple black square, a far cry from her and Elena’s colorful monstrosity that cheerfully requests guests to _Wipe Your Paws!_ before entering—and holds out one of the pretzels when he answers.

“Sorry I broke into your house and assaulted you,” she says seriously. “Please accept this pretzel as tribute.”

That makes him laugh and he steps outside into the sunshine with her.

“Your dog is quite cute,” Nik says, squatting down so that he’s on eye level with Milo. Milo, the intrepid and wary guard dog that he is, proceeds to thoroughly investigate this stranger by licking his entire face enthusiastically.

(Caroline can’t quite blame him.)

“Thanks. He’s actually a hellhound, so don’t let him fool you.”

“Now that sounds like slander. You should sue your mum, my friend,” Nik tells Milo solemnly before looking back up at her. “What’s his name?”

Caroline studies him through her sunglasses, privately enjoying the way his Henley skims over the very obvious lines of his arm muscles. 

“Milo,” she answers before she gets caught staring. And for whatever reason, she continues, even though he hadn’t asked and it’s probably too much information. “He’d been at the shelter the longest of any of the other animals, and the staff said it’s because of his E-Y-E.”

Nik looks up at her questioningly as she spells out the word eye. She taps her pointer finger to just underneath her own eye, then gestures to Milo, who is missing his right one. “They thought he got attacked before he came to the shelter and I don’t want him to get a complex about it.” She leans forward to scratch right behind Milo’s ears. “He’s my perfect best boy, even without it.” 

What she doesn’t tell Nik is that she had gone to the shelter directly from her dad’s funeral—hadn’t even bothered changing out of her starchy black dress—and specifically informed the director that she wanted to adopt the least adoptable animal they had. _Dog, cat, ferret, rabid raccoon, I don’t care_ , Caroline had said firmly. The woman had taken one look at her, at her smeared mascara and her hair pulled back in a perfect bun, nodded once in understanding, and led her straight to Milo.

“Well,” Nik says, standing up and subsequently pulling her out of her memories, “he _is_ a very good boy.”

“It’s true,” she agrees whole-heartedly, leaning against the column next to the three steps that lead directly to his front porch. Milo’s tail wags as his head swivels from Nik to Caroline and back again.

“I feel like it’s not enough,” Caroline says, waving the brown bag that had once held their now devoured pretzels. “I mean, if _I_ found some rando dude in my bed, I’d be way less chill about it than you.”

Nik shifts his weight from foot to foot before shrugging. “As you said, we men have it easy.”

“Okay but like, _still_. Let me make it up to you. Please. It’ll make me feel better—well,” she corrects, “kind of better. Maybe like, dinner or something?” She pauses, then adds, “Just not like, anywhere super nice. I just get my tuition paid here, unlike some fancy-pants virus hackers.” She grins. “I’m on a budget.”

He looks a little apprehensive, which she doesn’t get, but then his face clears.

“Name the date,” he says.

.

.

.

Nik chooses Fat Tuesday’s, and Caroline is impressed with how well he’s walked the line she gave him. It’s an upscale enough place to weed out the Tinder hookups, but not so nice that she’ll overdraft the tiny balance on her debit card.

Plus, the food is like, _really good_.

“So why did you decide to study viruses, of all things?” she asks over her red beans and rice. Nik pauses before clearing his throat and taking a sip of the red he’d ordered.

“Saw _Outbreak_ much too early in life,” he tells her, his face and tone serious before one side of his mouth ticks upward in a smile. “Made quite the impact on a young and impressionable soul.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” she quips with a laugh.

“What about yourself?” It doesn’t escape her how he steers the conversation away from himself, but she decides she’ll ignore it for now. “What made you decide on your career choice as an admittedly bad burglar?"

Caroline snorts at that. “For your information, I am a _history_ major,” she says with a hint of deliberate snootiness. “And…I guess _I_ saw _Indiana Jones_ too early in life.” She shrugs, suddenly becoming very interested in her food. “And my dad used to listen to like—books on tape about the Civil War on road trips and it was like…having a story read to you, you know?” She sneaks a look at him; his eyes are on her and they are _so soft_. Her insides feel warm.

It’s so not first date material (and she isn’t sure when she decided this was a date, but once her brain decides to call it that, she’s all aboard) but she tells him anyway. “He died two years ago.”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but somehow his expression gentles further. “I am so sorry for your loss,” he says quietly, his hand reaching over the table to settle over her own.

“Thanks,” and she blinks to find that her eyes have started tearing. She pulls her hand away to dab at them with her napkin. “Well, shit,” she says with a watery chuckle, “That’s a new one for me.” He tilts his head, an eyebrow raising, and she suddenly feels very shy as she clarifies. “Never cried on a date before.”

Nik goes very still, and for one dizzying, terrifying moment she panics that she’s misread this entire situation. _Oh god, he’s just super nice and I mistook it all for flirting, what is actually,_ seriously _wrong with me?_

“Ah,” he says softly. “So this is a date then?” 

She swallows hard. In for a penny, and all that.

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” she answers, just as softly.

When she finally looks up at him, his smile is like the sun.

.

.

.

**tbc**


	2. fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're...kind of dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We earn our M rating in this chapter, so if that's not your thing, please tread with caution.

**fall**

They’re…kind of dating.

Kind of, because he really does spend most of his time at the lab (or the library, or the basement of Shoaker Hall), but Caroline spends most nights doing her own work sitting at his dining table, Milo sleeping contentedly at her feet.

(It doesn’t help that Elena is officially back together with Shitty Damon, and he’s always at their house, just sitting there in his shitty-ness while she projects as loudly as she can into the universe just how much he _sucks_.)

“Why do you dislike him so much?” Nik asks once and she had paused mid-chew to consider the question.

It turns out to be incredibly easy for her to answer; she has an entire list and she ticks off the reasons to him.

“One.” She holds up her index finger. “He’s a huge dick. To me, to Elena, to Elena’s brother, to his _own_ brother—he’s just an _ass_. Two.” She holds up a second finger and Nik looks like he regrets asking. “He cheated on Elena constantly in high school. Probably still does, but I don’t have any proof and I guess that matters, or whatever. Three.” A third finger. “The fact that he wasn’t in school here was part of this place’s appeal for her, so what does Damon do? Transfer as soon as Elena accepted her scholarship. Four—”

Nik holds up his hands in a halfhearted effort to quell the onslaught. He smiles a little at her and says, “I get the picture, love, but perhaps—”

She brandishes her fork at him. “Shitty Damon doesn’t deserve any attempt at friendship or understanding,” she cuts him off. “Not that there’s anything to understand beyond the undeniable fact that he’s just a jerk.”

“So you’ve said,” he notes agreeably. Caroline narrows her eyes at him, trying to decipher if he’s placating her.

“Damon,” she says slowly, “is a _demon_. Trust me on this. I’ve held Elena’s hand so many times after that prick broke her heart, and she knows my stance on him.” Caroline shudders dramatically. “I refuse to spend any more time with him than necessary.” Milo whines from his spot at her feet, which reminds her. “Oh, and Milo hates him too. Surest sign of a sociopath.”

“Sociopath,” Nik repeats incredulously. “Seems a bit harsh, no?”

She sends him a dark, speaking glance. “You don’t know Damon.”

He seems to be biting back a wry smile over his coffee cup. “Sounds as though I don’t want to.”

“Don’t worry,” Caroline tells him seriously. “I’ll protect you from him.” She holds up her fork and thrusts it at him with mock-violence.

“My hero,” he says dryly.

.

.

.

The first time they have sex is when Caroline starts to believe that she could really, _seriously_ fall for this guy.

She’s had maybe a smidge too much wine; not enough to impair her judgement, but enough to make her supremely brave, and he’s just—so _concerned_ for her. “Are you sure?” he keeps repeating, constantly pulling away from her insistent lips.

Finally, she yanks on the collar of his shirt and hauls him down to her eye level. “If you ask me one more time if I’m sure, I will _end_ you,” she threatens, though she ruins the effect by giggling a little at the end.

Nik seems slightly caught off guard at her promise of violence, but he recovers quickly (thank _god_ ) and rolls with it, pressing her against the counter. His hips pin hers and his hands start to roam, one sliding around her waist and the other into her hair. His thigh moves so that he’s shifting her knees apart to make a place for himself between them and it’s—

—so, _so_ hot—

The hand in her hair moves down to her waist and before she knows it, he’s moved her so that she’s now perched on top of his granite countertop. “Mmm, cold,” she complains against his mouth and he smirks.

“Give it a minute,” he tells her, swallowing her reply.

Her dress is bunched up around her hips and Nik makes quick work of her tights, tossing them somewhere that is outside of her peripheral vision and therefore does not exist. She can only hope Milo doesn’t find them.

Caroline’s fingers grapple with the button of his jeans and if his mouth would let her breathe for just a second, she could undo the damn thing—

“Need a hand?” he breathes into her ear and she almost snaps at him, the button sliding free just in time.

“No, but it looks like you do,” she sasses back triumphantly; his black boxer briefs leave nothing to the imagination and she reaches forward, reaches down to take him in her hand. The skin of his cock is velvety soft and he exhales into her neck as she strokes him once, then twice.

She’s barely gotten a rhythm going when he moves his hand between her legs, fingers barely strumming her entrance. It makes her breath stutter and her hand pause.

“ _Caroline_ ,” Nik says, sounding as though she’s going to kill him. Which, she figures she technically already threatened to once tonight.

“Sorry,” she whispers back, trying to return her focus to the way he feels, but all she can think about is how his fingers keep circling around her and what his cock will feel like there instead.

“No, no,” he groans, his nose sliding against her temple, “don’t apologize, just— _Caroline_.” He says her name that way again, and she can’t help but smile a little bit. He must feel it because his free hand slides into her bra to cup her breast in retaliation, his fingertips swiping gently over her nipple until it peaks for him. 

Then finally, _f_ _inally_ his thumb finds her clit and she can’t keep up, releasing him so that both of her hands can clasp his shoulders. He’s _good_ at this, she thinks hazily, because no guy’s fingers have ever made her feel this way. Her hips are actually moving of their own accord, and he slides his pointer finger inside of her, then his middle finger and it’s _too much_ —

She gasps, loudly, into his neck, her knees pressing into the hardness of his sides. “Oh my _god_ ,” she exhales and apparently that does it for Nik.

He scoops her off the counter top, kicks off his jeans and his briefs, and carries her bridal style into his bedroom.

Caroline can’t help it; she giggles and says giddily, “Hey, I recognize this place!” She looks up at him and bats her lashes dramatically. “Home sweet home.”

Instead of laughing, he kisses her and wipes all thoughts from her mind.

Gone are his shirt and her dress, then her bra. She literally has zero clue where her panties ended up.

He pulls a condom from the side table and she watches in fascination as he rolls it on before nudging her knees apart. “Caroline,” he says seriously, leaning forward to cup her face in his hands. “Are you sure?”

And even though she had threatened to end him if he asked one more time, the look on his face is so—

She nods. “Very,” she tells him before pressing her lips against his.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. 

The press of him inside her is slow, almost agonizingly so. “Nik,” she whines, stretching his name out so that one syllable becomes three. She feels him smirk against her shoulder.

“Patience is a virtue,” he mock-scolds, tongue dancing across her collarbone.

“And if someone’s too _slow_ , I’m going to leave here with mine intact,” she retorts; that makes him laugh, the sound of it deeper than normal as it skates across her skin.

After what feels like an eternity, he’s sheathed inside of her, but he doesn’t yet move. They lay like that for several seconds, until he tells her softly, “You’re beautiful.”

It shouldn’t make her blush, not when he’s fully inside of her, stretching her open beneath him; but it does. She kisses him again instead of replying.

He begins to move, her hips rising up to meet his as they settle into a rhythm. His mouth trails down her sternum, leaving wet kisses between her breasts before he focuses his attention on one breast, catching a nipple in his mouth and sucking.

Caroline has to clasp a hand over her mouth to keep from letting loose a loud moan. Nik shows her no sympathy, doesn’t slow down, the thrust of his hips matching the swipe of his tongue across the sensitive tip. “You are _evil_ ,” she groans in tortured approval, her fingers lacing through his hair. She thinks she feels him fight back a laugh.

When the snap of his hips becomes too quick for her to match, he releases her breast with an obscene _smack_. His hands tighten around hers and she can feel her insides begin to clench in response.

He comes first but she isn’t that far behind him, the heels of her feet digging into his lower back as the world whites out. When she returns to herself, they’re both breathing hard, their panting echoing off the walls of his bedroom.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeats, pushing himself off of her and throwing away the condom before returning to pull her in close to him. Caroline _loves_ a snuggler, and she scoots in so that his arms can fold easily around her, her legs twining with his.

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” she says to him with a cheeky grin that he returns before nuzzling the fine baby hair at her temple.

He falls asleep before she does, and she uses the quiet stillness to trace the outline of his face with her gaze: the way his brow slopes, the line of his jaw, the length of his eyelashes ( _so unfair_ , she thinks fondly). 

In the dark she whispers to him, “I think I love you.”

.

.

.

She really loves the way he says her name— _Car-oh-line_ , his voice wrapping smoothly around each consonant. 

She loves the absent way he plays with the ends of her hair when his arm is slung casually around her shoulders; as though this is the way they’ve always been and will continue to be. 

She loves how he looks at her sometimes, when he thinks she isn’t looking—like she is something to be treasured, to be protected. Like he can’t quite believe his luck. 

When a particularly nasty autumn bug makes its way through campus, he listens to her as she catalogues each symptom she’s felt in the last twenty-four hours—"Or wait, can the germs live forty-eight hours on surfaces? Shit, Nik, I’ve definitely got it, I was in the athletic facility all Tuesday afternoon!” She wrinkles her nose and wipes the faucet handles with a vengeance. “I know for a fact that football players don’t wash their hands. It’s _gross_.”

Her dramatics make him chuckle. Once her Lysol-ing spree is finished, they wind up on either end of his couch, him hyper focused on his laptop while she keeps sneaking looks at him from her book ( _A People’s History of the United States)_.

“Sweetheart, I am not a physician,” he reminds her patiently without looking up from the screen in front of him.

“ _No_ , but you might as well be.” She gestures towards him with her highlighter. “Don’t you know more about viruses than the average MD?”

Nik flashes a crooked grin at her and her heart melts at the sight of his dimples. “I wouldn’t tell them that.”

“Oh, _really_? Damn, let me cancel that billboard I ordered.”

The laugh that escapes him starts low in his chest. It absolutely delights her.

(She wakes up the next morning the bug’s latest victim; he takes the day off from his lab work and research to make her homemade chicken noodle soup, like his mother used to do for him when he was small, he tells her. He checks her temperature every hour and wraps her in the fuzzy blanket that drapes over the back of his couch. He tells her to go to sleep, he will be there when she wakes up.)

.

.

.

“I have to tell you something,” Nik announces one night just as she’s about to doze off, her head on his chest. His arm extends down the slope of her naked back, his hand coming to rest comfortably over her hipbone.

Caroline doesn’t open her eyes but wrinkles her nose as though she’s considering it. “Mm, nope,” she decides, burrowing further into him. “This isn’t a confessional, my friend. Save it for when the sun is up.”

His fingers pull gently through her hair, and this, _this part_ is what she had always enjoyed the most about relationships. The easy, companionable quiet in the arms of someone who wants to be there.

“I’m afraid I have to tell you now,” he says, and his voice is tinged with the sound of genuine regret. It sends a frisson of fear through her. She sits up.

She’s imagining the worst—he has a girlfriend, he has a wife, _oh my god he has an entire family back in England—_

“What is it?” she asks softly, her voice already sounding as though it might break.

Nik stares intently at her face as though memorizing the lines of it. As though he might not see it again for a long time.

“I knew who you were,” he finally says, voice quiet. “When I found you asleep in my bed that night.” He exhales, and she’s more than a little confused but lets him work through whatever it is he’s working through. “I remember when you moved in.” His eyes are downcast now, avoiding hers. “You had on those zebra striped shorts, and you told your friend that was trying to help you with a box that you didn’t need a man to carry your shit.”

She knows the shorts he’s talking about, remembers telling Tyler Lockwood exactly that as he’d tried to take a box full of winter coats from her; but she’s still not sure what exactly it is he thinks he’s confessing to. 

“Okay?” she prods. “And?”

He still doesn’t look up at her. “And that weekend there was a football game and when I saw that you were a cheerleader, I used the faculty system to look you up.” He says it all in a rush and finally, finally meets her eyes.

Caroline blinks and waits for more. When nothing follows and he continues to look at her, expectantly waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop—

“That’s your big confession?” she asks incredulously. “That you Googled me when we first moved in next door? Oh my god, have you seriously been torturing yourself over _that_?”

“It’s not _Google_.” He sounds briefly offended at her smear of the faculty listserv, or whatever. “There’s quite a bit of information on that system, love,” (and now he looks a little bewildered at how he has suddenly found himself defending the actions he had just thought disturbing enough to confess to her). “I found out your hometown, your major, your _high school GPA_.”

“Mystic Falls, Virginia; history; and a 3.8 unweighted, 4.7 weighted,” she recites dutifully, ticking them off on her fingers. “And now I’ve told you myself, so you can stop beating yourself up over something that’s seriously silly.” She leans forwards and kisses his lips. “Never forget,” she says solemnly, “that you met me when I was just starting my career as a burglar.”

Nik stares at her as though he can’t quite believe she’s real, before— “It was just some _light_ breaking and entering, love,” he points out before rolling over so that he’s on top of her and kissing her soundly.

.

.

.

And yeah. She’s _such_ a goner.

.

.

.

The first photo in his apartment is the one of the two of them that she tacks to his fridge with one of her own magnets. “Who doesn’t own _magnets_?” she grumbles with faux irritation.

In it, they’re at a women’s basketball game since she doesn’t have to cheer at those, praised be (though if she thinks about it too hard, it’s bullshit and kind of sexist); his arm is around her and her temple rests against his. He wears a closed mouth smile, while she’s all toothy grin—it fits them, she thinks with some satisfaction.

But—

Her brow furrows slightly. “Hey, Nik,” she calls out, wandering aimlessly in search of literally any other photos (with people, she specifies; he has plenty of landscapes) in his house. He grunts in response from somewhere within the bowels of the house. “Where are all your pictures of, like, people? Like, your friends and family?”

His silence puts her on edge.

It’s not an _oops, didn’t quite hear you_ kind of silence; it’s loaded and weighted down with a heaviness that she can almost feel pressing against her. Caroline pokes her head into the second bedroom, where he’s sitting behind the desk. She knows from the look on his face that he heard her.

“Hey,” she says again, softer this time, her long braid falling over her shoulder. “Everything okay?”

She can tell immediately that his smile is forced. “Just fine, sweetheart,” he says, and she can also tell that this is a lie.

It’s the first time Nik has lied to her.

(Well, not technically, but she doesn’t count that stupid _I Googled you when you moved in_ crap. Who wouldn’t at least look up their new neighbor on Instagram? It’s 2020, for God’s sake.)

“You sure?” _Come clean about what’s bothering you. Tell me. I’m here for you._

“Of course,” he says, and his tone indicates that the conversation is over. 

She calls him out on it over dinner.

“You’re not fine,” Caroline says, careful to keep her tone conversational instead of accusatory. Milo’s ears perk up all the same. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

For a long, apprehensive moment, she thinks he might dodge her again; might tell her it’s all in her head. She isn’t sure what her next move is, if that’s the case.

But then he deflates, sitting back in his chair and pushing at his food with his fork. “I…don’t have any photos of my family here,” he admits with a long sigh. “We—we had a falling out. Years ago.”

She waits for him to elaborate but nothing comes. “Do…you wanna tell me what it was about?”

Hesitation is etched into the lines of his body; she tries to lighten the mood. “Can’t be worse than, horror of horrors, Googling your girlfriend.” She flashes him a smile that immediately feels too bright.

He looks so—so _tortured_ over it that she picks herself up out of her chair and walks over to him, settling onto his lap. 

“Hey,” she says soothingly, “families are complicated. I get it.” Her hand comes up, fingers clasping carefully at the back of his neck, rubbing gently to relieve the tension in the corded muscles there. “I’m team you, okay? Whatever it is, I’m on your side.”

Nik exhales heavily, his forehead coming to rest on hers. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know, love.”

It isn’t until later, when she is snuggled up to him on the couch, the credits of the movie they had rented playing softly from the tv, that he opens up. 

“My father and I never saw eye to eye,” Nik says. His fingertip traces a path down her arm and she can feel the warmth of his touch through her sweatshirt. “He preferred my brothers.” He shrugs a little. “Things…came to a head when I left for university.”

Caroline, an only child beloved by both parents, says nothing, but sits up a little to peer encouragingly into his face.

“My youngest brother, Henry—” Nik exhales heavily. “He had leukemia. And Michael…our relationship was never anything special, but after that, it fractured.” He shrugs a little and Caroline wants to wrap him in a hug so tight that breathing takes effort. “We fought about something, I don’t remember what. Something inconsequential, most likely. It escalated, and he told me to not come back.”

“ _Nik_ ,” she breathes, sympathy flooding through her. The look on his face breaks her heart and makes her want to put him up on her tallest shelf, where she can keep him safe.

“It was a long time ago,” he assures her, though his gaze is unfocused and his eyes faraway..

“Yeah but _still_ ,” she insists, “your dad shouldn’t have said that to you!”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “He is a very hard man to love,” he says finally, “and I’ve never been sure he knew how to, himself.”

Caroline blinks, her eyes suddenly feeling suspiciously wet. She looks down quickly so that he doesn’t notice, but she isn’t fast enough.

He catches her chin in his fingers. “Oh, none of that now, sweetheart,” he admonishes her gently, fingertips stroking her cheek. “I certainly don’t deserve those.”

She thrusts her jaw at him defiantly. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she sniffs haughtily before stretching up to touch her nose to his temple. “What you deserve is a father that cares about you and loves you. I’m so sorry you didn’t have that.” She leans down to kiss him softly. “But you should know that I do. Love you, I mean.”

The wrinkle in his brow clears, and he at first seems to have not heard her. But she sees the moment it registers—the tiny crinkle of his eyes, the hesitant, almost bewildered pull of his lips upwards. “Do you then,” he says, his face very close to hers. 

“Yep,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ a bit for emphasis. “Have been for a minute or two. Figured I should let you in on the secret.”

She will never, ever be over the way he looks at her--as though she is the sun, as though she is that around which his world revolves, casting the shadows behind him. “Secrets are meant to be shared,” he agrees solemnly, his gaze flickering down to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “And in that spirit, I feel I must tell you—” he drops a kiss on her nose, “—that I love you, as well.”

As he starts to thoroughly kiss her, Caroline briefly thinks that she should google if it’s possible to die from too much happiness.

.

.

.

The crisp fall air has given way to the biting cold, and she excitedly pulls her cable knit sweaters and tall boots out of her closet.

“I never see you anymore,” Elena complains mournfully, scratching Milo behind the ears. The dog sighs contentedly, his back-left paw thumping enthusiastically on the hardwood floor.

Caroline snorts. “That’s a lie,” she accuses playfully as she tosses another wool sweater into her duffel. “You see me every day at cheer practice.”

“Yeah but that’s like— _cheer practice_.” Elena scoots closer to the edge of the bed. “So. Nik. You really like this guy, huh?”

She doesn’t tell Elena that she passed _like_ weeks ago. “I really do,” she confirms with a small, beaming smile.

“Maybe we could do like, a double date or something? Don’t give me that look, Care, I know you’re not Damon’s biggest fan, but he’s really grown as a—hey, where’re you going?” Elena follows as Caroline heads to rummage in the kitchen cabinets. “Seriously, Caroline. Damon’s…really different now.” She pauses and tilts her head, long brown hair slipping over her shoulder like silk. “Don’t say anything, but he’s going to therapy.”

Caroline pauses in the act of pulling out the Grey Goose. “Really?”

Elena is twirling a lock of hair around one finger, a tell of her nervousness since at least the fifth grade. “Yeah. I think he’s really trying to be a better person, you know?”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to snark back, _trying is one thing, doing is another, and we all know how Damon is with the follow through,_ but Elena’s face is filled with hope. Caroline can’t bear to dash it. “Fine,” she groans in mock surrender, setting the Grey Goose back in its spot in the cabinet. “Set up the damn double date.” 

She’ll figure out an excuse to back out later, she decides. 

.

.

.

**tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't touch your face," says the author as she touches her face. 
> 
> Feel free to give me a follow on [Tumblr](https://little-miss-sunny-daisy.tumblr.com/) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sunnydaisy6)!


	3. winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve been together for four months when she meets Elijah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all you cool cats and kittens-
> 
> majority of this is un-beta'd, but what was beta'd was done by the still amazing [alienor_woods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienor_woods)

**winter**

They’ve been together for four months when she meets Elijah.

“My brother wants to visit,” Nik tells her, seeming a bit shell shocked at the news himself. He’s holding an honest to God _letter_ in his hand. Caroline thinks she sees a glimpse of flourish on the handwriting and good lord, rich people really are a different breed. 

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

He has to consider the question long enough that she gets the picture—it’s been a while.

“Do…do you want to see him?” Caroline probes gently. “There’s no rule saying you have to meet up just because he wants to. Even if he’s your brother.”

It’s the most unsure she’s ever seen him; the indecision plays out on his face. “I don’t know,” he finally admits, looking down at the thick stationery in his hand. 

Caroline reaches out and traces the crisply folded edge. “That’s okay too,” she assures him before trying her hand at some light distraction. “So just how, like, bougie is your family? This,” she taps the stationery, “is something super rich people do.” She wrinkles her nose. “Or maybe like people with a very specific hobby.” 

Nik doesn’t reply, his attention entirely on the letter in his hand. Strike one, Team Forbes. 

“I’d like to see him,” he says finally, thumbing the corner of the letter thoughtfully. 

Caroline sobers instantly. “Then you’ll see him,” she says firmly, clasping her hand over his. 

.

.

.

Elijah is not entirely what she expected. 

He’s a more serious version of Nik, though they look nothing alike. Elijah is taller, hair straight and dark, and he wears casualness uncomfortably; whereas Nik is most at home in his uniform of Henleys and dark jeans. But he is charming, with a dry sense of humor that has her smiling despite herself. 

Virology research stops for no man, nor, as Nik had blithely quipped that morning, for strained familial visits; which is how she finds herself with a guest as she takes Milo to the dog park. The winter sun shines brightly in a vivid blue sky; Caroline finds herself adjusting her sunglasses as her eyes water reflexively.

“How did you and my brother meet?” Elijah asks her as she unclasps the leash from Milo’s harness and lets him loose. He takes off excitedly towards where two lab mixes are wrestling and she waves to their owners. 

Then she realizes just what exactly Elijah has asked her.

“Um,” Caroline fumbles brilliantly, mind racing for something other than _I got wasted and fell asleep in the wrong house_. “He, uh, got me out of a jam and I took him to dinner as a thank you. It...kind of turned into a date, I guess? And that turned into,” she gestures aimlessly, “dating.” 

Elijah doesn’t challenge her heavily edited version of events, though she’s pretty sure he can tell there is way more to the story than she’s giving him. “He seems most taken by you.” 

Milo comes racing up, a mossy branch clenched proudly between his jaws. Caroline reaches for it, but Elijah beats her to it, taking the branch from her dog and throwing it yards away. Milo bolts after it, tail wagging excitedly. His hand is smeared with wet moss and mud, and it seems so antithetic to his carefully buttoned up persona, but Elijah barely seems to notice. 

“I’m pretty taken with him myself,” she says somewhat cautiously, eying him from behind her sunglasses. 

He gives nothing away, saying only, “That does seem to be the case.” It sounds on the surface like agreement, but something about his phrasing doesn’t sit well with her. 

They stand together in silence, watching Milo romp with the other dogs before she can’t take it anymore. “Is there something you want to ask me? Or, like, tell me?”

Elijah considers her before he says, “I don’t suppose Nik has told you our family situation?” 

It’s her turn to hedge. “Um,” she says again, “somewhat.” She shifts her weight awkwardly, unsure of where to look despite the protective lenses of her sunglasses. She fiddles with Milo’s leash, expecting Elijah to tell her what she already knows: that Nik and their dad had a huge falling out; along with a little of what she thinks he wants from her: to help him put the pieces back together. 

But he surprises her. “We’re quite well off,” he tells her bluntly, “and he has never seemed as serious about a girlfriend as he seems to be about you. What I need to know from you, Caroline, is that you are with my brother for the right reasons. Because if you are not, I would much rather pay you for a swift exit than watch you shatter his heart.” 

_Well_ then.

Abruptly, Caroline realizes her mouth has dropped open and shuts it quickly, before, too shocked to be offended, she stutters out, “I-excuse _you_ , I am not with him for _money_ .” Almost as quickly as shock had swept in, righteous anger swiftly takes its place. “You’re—that’s such a _dick_ thing to say, like, as if someone would only want to be with Nik for money!” She almost throws Milo’s leash at him, but the red that is hazing her vision clears just long enough for her to process that she needs it and that if Elijah is as big an asshole as he seems right now, he might have her arrested for assault. _Actual_ assault, too, not the cute running joke that permeates her relationship with Nik. So instead of throwing the leash, she grips it so tightly that she swears she could tear the damn thing in half if pressed. 

But then Elijah smiles at her, and she realizes several things all at once:

He loves his younger brother very much.

She has passed his test.

His smile is just like Nik’s. 

Caroline smiles back at him. 

.

.

.

They take Elijah out to dinner for his last night in town, back to Fat Tuesday’s. Caroline’s begun to think of it as _their spot_ ; the hostess knows them now and she sits them in the same back table every time they’re there. 

Caroline likes the idea of having a _spot_ with Nik.

She finds herself thinking that she also quite likes Elijah, likes that he will return to Nik’s family having met his girlfriend, likes that she has been granted access to what she knows is surely a deeply private part of Nik’s life.

Until Nik puts his fork down and says to Elijah, his face never once losing its pleasant expression, “Why are you really here, Elijah?”

Caroline sucks in air through her teeth. “ _Nik_ ,” she admonishes, gaze darting over to Elijah.

Except he doesn’t seem at all surprised—

“He’s dying, Nik,” Elijah says quietly. “Stomach cancer.” He looks down at the half-eaten food on his plate. “The doctor says he has six months in the best of cases.”

Nik goes still, so still that Caroline isn’t sure if he’s even breathing. She has missed something, something terrible, but she keeps her mouth shut. This isn’t about her.

Elijah hasn’t finished dropping bombs. “He wants to see you.”

The air around them turns into a vacuum, all sound sucked away until all Caroline can hear is the pounding of her own heart. _Don’t freak out_ , she silently begs Nik. If the look on his face is any indication, her telepathy is still grossly lacking.

“So that’s why you came,” Nik says slowly, and the way he’s holding his glass, his knuckles bleached white from the tightness of his grip, has warning bells ringing in Caroline’s head. She slides her palm down his thigh, coming to rest at his knee. She means it as a soothing gesture— _I’m here, I got you, it’s gonna be okay, we’ll face it together_ —but he tenses instead of relaxes. “You’re here to do his dirty work.”

“Niklaus,” Elijah rebukes softly, “he is our father.”

Caroline knows immediately that it’s the wrong thing to say. Her heart sinks into her shoes.

“Only in the biological sense,” Nik snaps through gritted teeth. “How nice to know you’re still his errand boy.”

“ _Nik_ ,” she hisses at him just as pain flashes across Elijah’s face.

“We’re leaving,” he snaps back, dropping several crisp bills on the table with a final glare in his brother’s direction.

“No, no, I will handle it—” Elijah protests and the line of Nik’s back goes ramrod straight.

“Do not think,” he snarls and Caroline flinches at the ferality of the sound, “to do me any favors, _brother._ ” 

.

.

.

His mood is _foul_ for an entire week.

“Look,” Caroline finally snaps back after he had very irritably remarked on her inability to microwave food without it overflowing its container, “this has got to stop, or I’m going to get seriously bitchy.” She claps her hand over his mouth when he makes to say something that is sure to piss her off even further. “And trust, you will regret saying whatever it is you’re thinking, so take my advice and _don’t_.”

They stand like that for a moment until she slowly drops her hand and raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “Now,” she says, reaching around him to pull her reheated curry out of the microwave. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

She nods. “That’s fine. Really, it is. _But_. You don’t get to be an ass to me because your family life is going to shit.” Her tone softens incrementally. “If you change your mind, I’m parking it over on that couch—” she points to his living room, “—because I have a massive paper to finish writing before finals.” 

When she’s halfway through proofreading her final draft, he sits down on the far end of the couch and sends her little glances until she takes off her noise cancelling headphones in half exasperation, half expectation. She says nothing, just tilts her head and raises her eyebrows.

He apparently needs no further encouragement. “After all this time, he decides that his _deathbed_ is where he wants to make amends? No.” Nik’s hand falls heavily onto the armrest as he repeats decisively, “No. We were finished long ago.” 

Nothing about his impassioned declaration indicates that he wants her opinion, and Caroline briefly debates keeping it to herself. After all, she’s hardly unbiased when it comes to the importance of paternal relationships, and his mind seems so made up. 

Apparently her poker face is entirely too readable because Nik sighs and says with reservation, “You have thoughts you want to share, but aren’t sure if I’d like to hear them.” 

She tilts her head and squints a little at him. “Yep, but also not sure if I’m entirely neutral so…” she shrugs, her arms spread wide. “Grain of salt? Boulder of salt? Mount Everest of salt?”

“Understood.” He gestures at her to continue. 

“I think...look, if you think there is even like, the tiniest of iotas that you might regret not going after—” she hesitates, “—after this is all over, then you should go.”

Nik looks like he wants to argue with her. She waits a beat for him to start effectively laying out all his reasons why he can’t take her advice, what she’s missing, his arguments for why he should stay distanced from his family during this, of all times.

He surprises her by deflating abruptly, sighing heavily as though exhaling all of his vitriol. His head falls back to rest against the back of the couch and he looks as resigned as she’s ever seen him.

“You would go?” he asks, as though he doesn’t know her answer, as though he’s not just buying time before he has to make his own decision. But she lets it slide. 

“Would be there already.”

He’s quiet for long enough that she realizes something else is weighing on his mind. Finally, before she has to pry it out of him, he says, his voice lowered as though she’s a horse that might spook, “Would you tell me about your father, Caroline?”

Oh.

“Oh,” she says brilliantly, blinking back at the threat of tears that have suddenly sprung up behind her eyes. “Um—sure. Like, um, what, exactly?”

Nik is studying her, and she wonders, a little whimsically, if this is how viruses feel while under his microscope—exposed. “Anything.” 

“Oh,” Caroline says again, feeling her cheeks warm as they stain with pink. “Um—well—”

But once she starts, the words tumble out, one right after the other.

“He—well, we didn’t really have, like, the best relationship, actually.” She shrugs a little, avoiding Nik’s gaze. “My mom and him got divorced when I was really little because, um, he came out?” Here she sneaks a look up at Nik, but his expression hasn’t shifted. His hand covers hers, and his thumb strokes over her knuckles. It helps ground her. 

“Anyway,” she continues, stumbling less over her words, “he was mostly, like, not really around when I was growing up, but then I guess he figured some stuff out, and he moved from Georgia with my stepdad to just a few streets down from my mom’s house and we—got close again.” 

She hesitates before pushing through the slight swell of emotion.“He’d been working really late that night, and it was raining.” She’s nearly whispering. “And this doctor had just gotten off a brutal shift—a pediatric _surgeon_ , of all things, and she fell asleep in her car, and I—I wanted to hate her so much, you know?” 

It isn’t until she feels wetness on her face that she realizes she’s crying. Without a word, Nik pulls her in close, her back against his chest and his chin resting on the top of her head. His arms are tight around her, and she lets him hold her pieces together. 

“But I couldn’t do it, no matter how hard I tried. Couldn’t hate a stranger, especially one who does so much _good_.” She inhales shakily and she’s pretty sure she’s dripping snot. She tries to subtly wipe her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “For a long time, I thought that meant I didn’t love him enough.”

“Caroline,” he murmurs into her hair. 

She hiccups and it is _thoroughly_ embarrassing. But he doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care. “I picked history for him,” she whispers. It’s her big secret, the one that she had never told anyone—not Elena, not her mom, not even a whisper into the fur on top of Milo’s head. “So that he would be proud of me.” A dry laugh escapes her. “I have no idea what I’m going to do with it.”

Nik’s arms tighten around her. “I am quite certain that he is exceedingly proud of you, Caroline,” he says, lips brushing against her temple. 

There’s enough surety in his tone that, even if just for a moment, she lets herself believe him. 

.

.

.

It’s not like her life had been, like, _unhappy_ or whatever. Caroline had been perfectly fine, going to class, cheering, taking Milo on walks and to the dog park, swapping gossip with Elena, and occasionally making the trek back to Mystic Falls to see her mother. It had been just fine, thank you very much. 

But that had been all it was. Fine. 

A solid B+, really. 

It wasn’t even like she hadn’t liked Before (which is how she’s come to think of life before Nik, capital B Before). It wasn’t black and white, or shades of gray, or even a slightly washed out palette. It had been in full living color. 

But now, with Nik—

Once, when she was a kid, there had been a massive thunderstorm that rolled through Mystic Falls—bad enough that school had been cancelled the next day. Caroline remembers going outside to play as soon as the ground was dry enough, and it was like the world had been scrubbed clean. The air seemed clearer, the sky a brighter blue, the leaves and grass a more vivid green; as though there had been a film over all their eyes that the rain had washed away. 

That’s what it’s like with Nik, she thinks decisively. 

Like he saturates her world with a vibrance she hadn’t known existed.

.

.

.

Caroline and Elena co-hostess Friendsgiving, inviting the out of state students from their cheer squad and from the virology department. Shitty Damon comes too, and she hopes that Elena doesn’t notice that Nik is running interference for her. She still owes them a double date, and _ugh_ , hopefully she can delay till after Christmas. 

Damon finds her anyway; she’s peering into the oven at the turkey when she hears his voice behind her. Her first instinct is to find Nik and when she sees him in deep conversation with his lab partner, she groans. 

“Yes, Damon?” Her tone is long suffering as she resigns herself to the idea of _conversing_. With _Damon_. 

The first thing she notices that he actually looks uncomfortable. 

The second thing she notices is that he’s not really looking directly at her—rather, his gaze is pinned somewhere behind her right ear. 

“I just wanted to say thanks,” he says, shifting from foot to foot. That’s new too, the fidgeting. “For letting Elena invite me.” 

Caroline debates on telling him that she didn’t _let_ Elena do anything; rather, he had shown up and that was when she had found out about his invitation to Friendsgiving. But he looks so serious, so un-Damon like, that she keeps it to herself and says instead, “Um. Sure.”

“I know we haven’t always gotten along—” _crap_ , there’s more? She schools her face into what she hopes is an even, placid expression— “but I’m—”

He’s stumbling over the words, which is seriously throwing her off. “Use your words, Damon,” she orders, crossing her arms and looking at him expectantly. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles, straightening and looking her dead on. She feels her own spine stiffen in response. “I’m really trying to make things work with Elena this time, and she insists on being your friend, so we’re stuck with each other. Can we try to be civil please, Barbie?”

Caroline narrows her eyes at him. “ _Fine_. But call me Barbie again and not only is the deal off, but I’m replacing your shampoo with Nair.” 

He has the audacity to _laugh_ at her. Like she’d been joking! 

“Ah, sorry, love,” Nik cuts in, his hand clasping around her elbow. He must have just noticed his dereliction of duty, because his eyes flicker from Damon to her, one eyebrow arching slightly in question. “Need to steal you away for a bit.” 

Once they’re safely out of earshot, she bitches to him under her breath, “He’s infuriating, and I guess he’s sticking around.” 

“Maybe give him a chance,” Nik suggests, his hand falling to her waist as he steers her towards the wine cart, god bless him. “If he’s truly making an effort, where is the harm?” 

“I _am_ giving him a chance,” she grumbles back irritably, picking up the chardonnay and gifting herself with a generous pour. 

By the end of the night, as people begin to filter out, it’s becoming apparent that Damon is staying the night with Elena. Caroline grimaces internally and pulls her coat on, pocketing her keys. Nik’s hand finds its way into hers, as though that’s where it’s always supposed to have been, and she smiles up at him. “Sleepover?” she teases lowly, and the grin he sends down to her makes her insides twist delightedly.

“If you insist,” he replies, the flirtatious laughter in his eyes belying the exaggerated graveness of his tone.

As soon as his front door shuts, Milo bounds off to parts unknown and Nik presses her against the wall, kissing her soundly. He tastes like cranberry sauce, she thinks hazily. 

“Hey,” she says when his lips move to her neck, “you should come to the last home game.” 

He hums from his place in her collarbone. 

“Seriously! You should do it, I can get you a ticket, or tickets if you wanna bring some guys from your lab—maybe Tony or Adrian? It’s this Saturday, and it’s at night, those are always fun, good crowd—”

His mouth on hers silences her briefly, until she pulls back. “It would mean a lot to me if you came,” she tells him, her fingers smoothing over the hem of his shirt collar. “If you can make it.” 

Nik’s forehead drops to hers. “Then make it, I shall,” he says, before reaching down and hitching her knees up so that her legs wrap around his waist. It appears they aren’t making it to the bed tonight. She lets her gaze wander appreciatively down to where the moonlight is playing over his forearms. 

_Hot_ , is the last thing she thinks before she stops thinking entirely. 

.

.

.

True to his word, he attends the last home football game. The air is bitingly chilly, and to Caroline’s everlasting gratitude, the athletic department has _finally_ approved swapping their normal cheerleading skirts for their slightly warmer track pants. 

“It’s bullshit we still have to wear these stupid tops,” Elena mutters mutinously to her in the locker room, and Caroline nods in silent agreement. Their stomachs are going to _freeze_. 

“Nik’s coming to this one,” she confides excitedly, bouncing a little on her toes.

(She blames it on the cold.)

It’s well into the first quarter when Caroline spies him in the crowd, flanked by Tony and Adrian, his friends from the chemistry department (“A rivalry most fierce, biology and chemistry,” he had claimed when she had met them). She’d told him she had reserved the tickets for him at will call and he’d demurred, hedging on if he’d be able to escape the never-ending demands of his research. 

But there he is, looking entirely out of place with a plate of barbeque nachos in one hand and a beer in the other. She grins up at him from her spot on the field before focusing on the back tuck, back handspring combo she’s supposed to do in sync with Elena. 

They lose the game, but she can’t wipe the beam from her face. 

Afterwards, as they walk to his car, his fingers skate across the hem of her uniform’s crop top. She sends him a saucy grin as they dip perilously close to underneath the fabric. 

“Do they usually lose?” he asks curiously, taking her duffel bag from her and letting his hand fall to the exposed skin of her lower back. “And by so much?”

“They’re...not great,” Caroline confirms lightly, nose wrinkling. “And that’s being...uh, _generous_.” As they approach his car, she plants herself in front of him and takes his face in her hands. “I’m really glad you got to come tonight,” she tells him seriously before kissing him lightly on the lips. “It means a lot.” 

His hand comes to rest on his chest, over his heart. “It was a sacrifice I’d make only for you, sweetheart. American football—” he shakes his head in dramatic disgust, “—a travesty that it shares a name with _real_ football—”

“Hey!” she yelps, smacking his arm. “Don’t write off the entire sport because you happened to pick a university with a super _shitty team_ for your phD—”

“You were the best part,” he interrupts her, nose sliding against hers, effectively rendering her speechless. “The fraternity pledges in front of me thought so, too, by the way.” 

“Oh, _really_?” 

“Mmm. They were most vocal about their entirely correct opinion.” 

“Too bad for them I’m spoken for,” she says, pecking him on the lips before bounding energetically to the other side of his car. 

It isn’t until they’re halfway home that he says, tone entirely serious, “I’ve decided I’m going to go visit him.” 

Caroline had been slouching in the passenger seat, half curled into a sleepy ball, but at the news, she straightens. He hasn’t turned to look at her but she focuses on him all the same. 

“Okay,” she says carefully. “When?”

The only outward indication of his inner turmoil is the slight, nearly imperceptible whitening of his knuckles as his grip on the steering wheel tightens. 

“Christmas,” he says. “Thereabouts.” 

“Okay,” she says again. “So...how’re you feeling about that?”

He sighs heavily, thumbs jittering across the steering wheel. “Apprehensive, frankly.” 

“Normal,” Caroline says decisively. “It’s a big deal.” She reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it within hers. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing, for you.” She lets the pad of her thumb trace over his fingers. “Do you—do you want me to come with?”

Nik considers it, considers her. “No,” he says finally. “I appreciate the sentiment, sweetheart, but this is something to be done on my own.” 

She squeezes his hand again. “I’m only a text away if you need me.” 

.

.

. 

Caroline had taken a Japanese Art History course as an elective her sophomore year. She’d been so sick of the same monarchs and presidents gunning for the same slices of power over the pages of her history books, and though the class had been so completely out of her comfort zone, she had found herself thoroughly immersed in the material. 

The professor had pulled up slides of beautiful pieces of pottery that looked as though they had been deliberately smashed to pieces, only to be stitched back together with shimmery thread. Beauty in the broken, the professor had said, and more than one of her classmates had sniffed back tears.

It’s the first year that Liz Forbes invites her father’s widower to Christmas and Caroline feels like _kintsugi_ , gold shimmer filling the cracks that loss had left behind.

(Her heart still aches, but she is no longer drowning in her grief. Every once in a while, a rogue wave catches her off guard, crashing into her with the full force of the ocean behind it; but she finds herself clinging to the driftwood of all the memories accompanying the sorrow and she discovers she can keep her head above the water.) 

She and Milo drive back to school three days after Christmas, much to Liz’s dismay, but Caroline promises to call more and to bring her boyfriend— _yes, Mother, a real boyfriend_ —home over spring break.

.

.

.

The text comes in late the night she gets back from Mystic Falls. Milo is dozing on the couch, snoring in the cute way only dogs can snore while she giggles quietly and films him on her phone to send to Elena. 

_I saw him_ , is all it says, and Caroline shoots up off the couch so quickly that Milo jolts awake and lets loose his intruder howl. “Shhh,” she soothes distractedly as she pulls her coat on and finds her shoes. The light is on next door, which means Nik is home. She glances at Milo, trying to quickly calculate the last time he went out and making the executive decision to let him stay behind this time. 

She doesn’t bother knocking and the door is unlocked. Nik is leaning against the counter, nursing a glass half filled with amber liquid and staring at the floor, his face expressionless. 

Caroline stops halfway through shrugging out of her coat. The air is thick with tension; it makes her shiver a little. “What happened?” she asks softly, letting her hands drop to her sides. Her coat hangs off of her, forgotten. “Is he… did he…” she can’t bring herself to say the words, so she lets them trail off instead, lets them hang in the space between them that suddenly feels so vast. 

But Nik doesn’t answer her. “What happened,” he repeats instead, swirling the drink around in his glass. She does _not_ like the hollow quality to his voice. “He told me the truth. About my mother. About myself.”

He sets the glass down carefully and crosses his arms before finally looking over at her. “What happened is that I never should have taken the advice of a twenty-two-year-old _cheerleader_ playing at being an adult.” His voice is ice cold; it freezes the blood in her veins. “I should have followed my instincts instead of listening to someone for whom life experience consists almost entirely of frivolity and _vapidity_.” 

The words tumble out of her mouth, slowly at first, then quickly as the dam inside of her splits open. “Excuse the fuck out of me,” she says slowly, every word echoing around the small kitchen to the sound of her heart cracking at the edges. “For not wanting you to make a decision you might end up regretting for the rest of your life. For wanting you to be able to have peace with him.” She inhales shakily. “It’s not like I have experience with dead fathers, or anything.”

That makes something flash like lightning across his face, some emotion she can’t make out before it’s gone again. 

“And yet,” Nik says flatly, picking up his bourbon again to toast her mockingly with it. “Peace eludes me all the same. In fact,” he points at her, almost accusingly, “it eludes you too, Caroline the history major who picked the degree solely to earn her father’s pride.” He leans forward. “Look at the pair of us,” he mocks, “chasing after that which we’ll never have. Downright Sisyphean.” 

She stares at him numbly. She feels like she’s bleeding out while he watches.

And that’s it. None of it can be unsaid.

Caroline takes a deep, shuddering breath and walks out of his house. 

.

.

.

**tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun thing about quarantine is that literally everyone decides they are a baker. Including me, who made banana bread today. 
> 
> Feel free to give me a follow on [Tumblr](https://little-miss-sunny-daisy.tumblr.com/) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sunnydaisy6)!


	4. spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been four and half weeks (or thirty one days, or seven hundred and forty four hours, or forty four thousand six hundred and forty minutes) since Caroline has seen Nik. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late, but we've made it to the end!

**spring**

It’s been four and half weeks (or thirty one days, or seven hundred and forty four hours, or forty four thousand six hundred and forty minutes) since Caroline has seen Nik. 

Not that she’s counted. 

She _hasn’t_.

Counting would mean she misses him. Counting would mean that she didn’t hear things like _frivolity_ and _vapidity_ ringing in her ears every time she walks out her front door and sees his car. Counting would mean that she’s not okay, that she’s suffering, that she’s hurting, and _Jesus Christ on a cracker, Elena, she is fine_. 

Who’s counting?

She walks a wide swathe around Shoaker Hall when she’s on campus, keeps her head down in the library, takes Milo on walks in the opposite direction of his house, and avoids looking anywhere else but down at the lock of her front door when she lets herself in at home. After serious consideration, she’d also blocked his number, reasoning that if he wanted to sack up and apologize—not that she’d accept, not without serious groveling and possibly not even then—he _did_ live next door. 

“Nik knows where to find me,” she had said decisively to Elena, whose expression held a mix of worry and sympathy. 

He had made it perfectly clear what he thought of her, and if peace had eluded her before, it is certainly nowhere to be found now. 

.

.

.

It’s a strange, almost cruel irony that her room, the one for which she had mistaken Nik’s, is now so unfamiliar to her. The yellow of her bedding, chosen because it had felt like waking up in a sunbeam, is now garish and too bright; the gossamer curtains too soft and thin to hide behind, her desk too dainty for any real work. 

She is so used to being in his space, amongst his things, that her own has become entirely foreign.

New Year’s had found her in her pajamas, watching _Legally Blonde_ , and going to bed at nine thirty. It’s the lamest she’s felt in years, though she does feel a smidge of gloating when Elena crawls out of bed at one thirty in the afternoon on New Year’s Day, her voice scratchy and her eyes puffy. 

(Caroline pours her a hot tea and hands her a cold towel to press her face into.)

Valentine’s Day comes and goes. Her mom sends a care package, filled with chocolate hearts and pink Starbursts, along with a card that includes a crisp $20 bill inside. Caroline spends the day with her laptop, watching true crime documentaries on Netflix with the volume on her headphones turned up to muffle the sound of Elena’s happy laughter as she gets ready to go out to the fancy new restaurant downtown that Damon had somehow conned into giving them reservations. Milo drools on her pajama leg and she does a face mask while treating herself to candy and wine. 

She goes out for St. Patrick’s Day—or more accurately, is _dragged_ out by the tag team of Elena and (to everyone’s surprise, including his own) Damon. 

They do way too many Shamrock Shots at the only bar in town not crawling with nineteen year olds and Damon tells her in what he thinks is a whisper but is actually a yell, _right in her eardrum_ , “Hey, you know what? Fuck that dude, Care bear! Look at all the other fish in the sea!” He gestures wildly out towards the bar, which is, to his credit, full. 

Wincing, she pulls away from him. “Dude, _volume_. I’m right here, and I’d like to keep my hearing well into my golden years, _thanks_.” 

“Caroline,” he says, not paying the slightest bit of attention to what she’s saying, “pick a guy. Go home with him. It’ll help.” 

“Not interested,” she tells him flatly, sipping on her Guinness. “Sorry, Damon, play matchmaker with someone else.”

“Such as?” he asks, spreading his hands wide. 

“Literally _anyone else_. Pick one of them.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the full bar.

“ _You_ pick one of them,” he counters triumphantly. Caroline groans; they’re right back to where they started. 

“Elena, _help_ ,” she begs, turning to where her friend is ordering another round of Guinness and _crap_ , they are all going to be so hungover tomorrow. Caroline dodges the dancing shamrocks springing from Elena’s glittery headband and points at the pints. “Nope. No ma’am. No more for me, I’m tapping out.” 

“Nope!” Elena says cheerfully, popping the p. Damon’s arm snakes around her waist and Caroline catches her gaze lingering on the gesture for slightly longer than is polite. She shakes herself out of it. 

“I’ve gotta pee,” she announces before flouncing off to the ladies’. 

Once in the restroom, she leans against the sink counter and pulls her phone out of her pocket, tapping the screen until it takes her to her list of blocked callers. She scrolls through the list of spam numbers until she finds the familiar name. 

Caroline stares at it until the letters blur, then switches to her internet app, heading straight for Google and typing, _if you unblcok a nmuber do i.get.their.yext messsages_. 

No, the first result says. _Once blocked, a person cannot leave you any messages. However, once unblocked, you may begin receiving new messages._

Armed with this new information, she flips apps and goes back to staring at his name on her blocked list. 

She stands there, caught between Schrodinger’s text messages, wondering which would be worse: if he had already tried to reach her, only to fail, and she would never know; or if he didn’t try at all, entirely indifferent to their ending. Either way, she would never know, and she had no promise that he would try in the future. 

The bathroom door opens, the sudden movement pulling her from her misery as a gaggle of giggling girls stumbles in. Caroline pockets her phone immediately and turns to wash her hands before returning to where Elena and Damon are waiting. 

.

.

.

Later that night, she downloads Tinder and begins swiping aimlessly.

She deletes it an hour later. 

.

.

.

“Maybe you should try to talk to him,” Elena suggests gently that Saturday night, handing Caroline a mug of something that has quite the bite to it. She drinks deeply, relishing the burn. 

“No, what she should do is bring home a new dude every night and fuck their brains out on the front porch,” Damon argues helpfully. “Where he can see it.” 

“ _Ew_ , Damon,” Caroline says, wrinkling her nose. “Don’t be gross.” 

“It’s a better idea than trying to _talk_ to him,” Damon counters. “He was a total _dick_ to you, talking is off the table.” 

Caroline exchanges a look with Elena, who fights off a smile as she looks down into her own mug. “Don’t get too excited,” Caroline says to her under her breath so that Damon doesn’t hear. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.” 

“Sure,” Elena replies easily, her smile widening. “Sure it doesn’t.” 

.

.

.

Two weeks before the spring football scrimmage, cheerleading spring training begins and she and Elena find themselves sprinting up and down their street, followed by rounds of burpees and pushups. Damon stands at one end of the street with their kitchen timer, chewing on beef jerky as they race. “Slow,” he comments between bites; Caroline shoots him a glare in between panting gasps of air. 

“You could always join,” she suggests tartly, using the hem of her tank to wipe her sweat from her face. 

“Nah, I’m good, Barbie.” Damon wiggles his eyebrows at her, and she rolls her eyes in return, but she catches herself fighting back a smile. 

But she really does need to train, and though she and Damon have somehow found something akin to friendship, she’s always enjoyed running alone. 

The morning sunshine is out in full force and the air has just enough lingering mid-spring chill to it that Caroline is feeling a bit of regret for trusting the warmth of the sun and wearing a cropped muscle tank for her run; but she heads for the entrance to Treadwell Trails anyway, hooking her headphones over her ears. She opts to leave Milo at home for this one, wanting to feel the burn in her legs and in her lungs as her feet hit the ground as quickly as she can make them. 

She runs, and runs, and runs, the music drowning out any stray thoughts that threaten to flit their way into existence. 

It isn’t until her playlist starts over that she realizes just how long she has been running—the timer on her watch shows seventy-nine minutes and as she slows to a brisk walk for her cool down, Caroline feels her legs start to shake. 

She had pushed too hard, and tomorrow she would _ache_ , that was for sure. 

Sighing, she reaches for her phone where it is nestled in an armband and changes the music to something a little softer as she begins the long trek back to her street. 

When she finally arrives, she notices the cars that line the curb in front of his house. Chewing her lip, Caroline resolves that she _will not be curious_ —he had occupied enough of her time and enough of her thoughts that even granting him this slight and unbeknownst to him acknowledgement feels like ceding hard won ground. She narrows her eyes at the scene before purposefully looking away and focusing on the sidewalk in front of her—

—where there currently stands a man and woman around her own age, both in black formalwear with matching _scowls_ aimed at her—

“Um,” she says with no small amount of bewilderedness, pulling her headphones out of her ears, “can I help you?”

“Unlikely,” the blonde girl snits, gaze flickering over her—her messy ponytail, her legs dotted with trail dust, her sweaty attire—with distaste. 

“Though you could start by telling us where you were today, _Caroline_ ,” the man adds, his expression sour. 

Caroline stares at them in astonishment. “I...don’t even know where to begin,” she says, more to herself than to them. “Who _are you_?” 

The blonde scoffs, the man looks heavenward as though calling on patience from a higher power, and something about the both of them is _so familiar_ —it’s right there, tugging on a buried brain cell but she can’t quite put her finger on it—

Until—

“ _Oh_ ,” she says, exhaling heavily and dropping her hands to her hips. 

“ _Oh_ ,” mocks Nik’s sister. Rebekah, Caroline remembers, and though she looks nothing like Nik nor Elijah, she wears the same haughtiness that she had seen on both. Which makes him Kol, and now that she’s put it together, she’s surprised she didn’t have him figured out immediately. He looks like the police sketch version of Elijah, though wearing a far nastier expression than she had ever seen on the latter. 

“Was your _run_ more important than your _boyfriend’s father’s funeral_?” Kol demands, and the pair of them pin her with such disgusted looks that she feels approximately eight inches tall before she snaps out of it. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Caroline says shortly, the words and the truth they hold still lancing through her. She tugs on her headphones where they lay against her collarbone and hops down to the street to make her way past them. “Not since Christmas break.” She pauses and then turns back to where they stand, still glaring at her, though Rebekah’s holds considerably less heat. 

Her voice is a tiny fraction gentler as she adds, “Sorry for your loss.” 

She feels brittle down to her bones. 

.

.

. 

Three days later, there is a knock on her door.

It’s a short and sharp rap, but Caroline hears it over the soft music playing in her headphones anyway. Milo is suddenly alert in his spot at her feet and Caroline runs through the very short list of people who would knock on her door without texting or calling first. Her heart speeds up as she shifts her laptop to the coffee table and heads for the door, mentally preparing herself for seeing Nik for the first time in months. 

But it isn’t him. 

Esther Mikaelson is somehow not at all what Caroline expected, while simultaneously not surprising her in the slightest. Her hair is long and greying, an echo of the hippie Nik had claimed her to be; but she’s wearing smart trousers and a crisp white shirt that looks as though it’s been freshly ironed. She looks like she owns an independent health foods grocery store that struggles to make ends meet each month, except Caroline’s like, ninety eight percent sure that that’s a genuine Cartier bracelet on her wrist. 

“Caroline?” Esther asks and before she quite knows what’s happened, Nik’s mother is sitting at her kitchen table, warming her hands against a steaming cup of peppermint tea.

Caroline has no idea what to say to this woman, whose son broke her heart into pieces. 

It doesn’t matter; Esther takes it out of her hands. “Your home is lovely,” she compliments genially, shifting in her seat to look at the generic artwork on the walls.

“Thanks,” Caroline replies flatly, and motions towards the print that seems to have caught Esther’s eye. “That’s from Target. You could probably still find it if you wanted it.”

Esther is unruffled by her shortness; she smoothes the panels of her blouse before leaning in slightly. “My other children have enlightened me on Niklaus’s... _situation_ with you,” she says carefully. Caroline gets the impression that this woman does nothing without calculating. “Admittedly, I may not have the entirety of the story, given that I’ve been privy to only one side, but it is my understanding that you are owed an explanation.” She looks directly at Caroline. “Though I must stress it is not an excuse for any appalling behavior to which you may have been subject.” 

_Well_.

“I’m listening,” Caroline tells her tonelessly, fingers wrapping tightly around her mug.

Esther leans forward and shifts slightly in her seat; for a brief moment, Caroline wonders if she is uncomfortable. She seems so unflappable. 

“My husband was not a kind man,” Esther says finally, breaking eye contact for the first time. “I met him when I was quite young, and we had our first two boys quickly. I—I was unprepared for motherhood, and Michael was hardly what one would call _supportive_.” She sighs heavily and Caroline feels an unexpected pang of sympathy for the young woman she had once been. “I’m afraid I...acted out.” Her eyes meet Caroline’s. “I am not proud of this,” she warns. “And I would ask that you please keep this in confidence. I do not want my other children to know.”

Caroline blinks. “Oh, um. Sure. Of course.” 

Esther’s expression is unfathomable, and she does not mince words. “I cheated on my husband.” 

Nik’s words from that night rush back to her— _he told me the truth. About my mother, about myself._ Her brow furrows slightly, the pieces slowly clicking into place.

“Niklaus was the result of my infidelity,” Esther continues, “and though I managed to keep the truth from Michael for most of Nik’s life, he did eventually find out.” Her grip on the mug tightens ever so slightly. “It was not long after our youngest passed.”

Caroline can’t stop herself. “Before or after your husband told Nik to leave and never come back?” she asks, unable to keep the sharpness from her tone. 

Esther looks up, her gaze distant. “After,” she confirms softly. “As I said, Michael...did not often know how to be kind. Not even to his own children.” 

“So he decided to let Nik in on the secret on his _deathbed_ ,” Caroline says disgustedly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Father of the damn year right there.” 

Esther doesn’t reply, instead looking down at the cooling tea in the mug she is holding. They sit like that for several beats.

“Well, you were right,” Caroline says finally. “It doesn’t excuse anything.” All Esther’s tale has done is tear anew at the schism in her heart that had been slowly healing. Her chest aches like it’s still December.

Esther considers her, and Caroline gets the uncanny impression that Nik’s mother can see straight into her soul. “You should know, Caroline,” she says with a casualness that belies her intent, “regarding my son.” Her eyes, the same deep blue as Nik’s, are unreadable. “Foolishness runs in the bloodline, I’m afraid.”

It’s such a delightfully delicate way to say _my son is an idiot, but I am unfortunately also an idiot, so it cannot be helped_ that Caroline can’t help but be charmed despite herself. Esther rises gracefully and holds her hand out. “I hope that I have helped, in some small way.”

Caroline takes her offered handshake. “Maybe,” she says finally. “Maybe.”

.

.

.

It has been over fourteen weeks (or one hundred and one days, or two thousand four hundred and twenty four hours) since Caroline last saw Nik. 

She’s given up pretending that she isn’t counting. 

.

.

.

There is a box on their front porch. 

It’s just after the spring game (Orange trouncing Blue, to which Damon had bemoaned meant another losing football season) and Caroline is slinging her cheer duffle over one shoulder when she notices it. 

“Elena,” she calls out to where Elena is hopping out of the driver’s side, “did you order something?”

“No,” Elena calls back, “not mine.” 

“Not that anyone asked,” Damon grumbles, “but I didn’t either.” 

Caroline rolls her eyes at him as they make their way up the front steps. “You better not be having things delivered,” she warns, “seeing as how you don’t _actually live here_.” 

She takes the steps two at a time so that whatever witty rejoinder he has at the ready doesn’t reach her. 

As she gets closer, she can tell that it’s not a package that has been delivered—there is no corporate logo to be found and it’s not made of cardboard. Instead, it’s dark grey and as she gets closer, she sees that the top is removable. Setting down her duffle, Caroline squats down and slowly takes off the top of the box. 

Inside are letters, stacks of them neatly lined up from one side of the box to the other. On top of the letters rests a note with her name written on it in an elegant, looping script that she thinks she recognizes as Elijah’s. She feels like there is a ball of ice resting right in the middle of her sternum. 

“What is it?” Elena asks curiously. Caroline shuts the top quickly and lifts the box into her arms. It’s surprisingly heavy.

“Not sure,” she says honestly, hitching the package up further onto her hip. “But I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” 

.

.

.

_Caroline,_

_It is a travesty that these had not yet made their way to you._

_I found I had to rectify it._

_Forgive my prying,_

_Elijah_

.

.

.

She deposits the box on her bed and opens the top skeptically. The letters are the same thick cream stationary Elijah had once sent Nik, but the handwriting that peeks out is decidedly _not_ Elijah’s. 

Caroline has a guess whose it is. 

Slowly, carefully, as though she is handling live ammunition, Caroline takes one letter out of the box and opens it. 

.

.

.

It’s nightfall by the time that she marches out of her house, stomping her way over to the house next door. Far fewer cars line the curb now, but several still remain, probably those of his mother and siblings. Caroline doesn’t care. She makes a fist and bangs on the front door, hard. 

It swings open immediately, to reveal Elijah. He looks as though he’s been expecting her, and she wonders briefly if he’s been standing by the door for very long, awaiting her arrival. 

“Ah,” he says quietly, his expression an enigma. “I see you read them.” 

Caroline scowls at him. “I’ll get to you,” she says ominously, pointing a threatening finger at him. “Later. Where’s Nik?” 

Elijah steps aside as she storms into the foyer. “The backyard.” He follows her through the house, caught in her wake. 

The rest of the family is in the backyard, crowded around the iron fire pit where a small fire is currently blazing, warding off the chill in the April air. Rebekah spots her first, her eyes widening as she nudges Kol next to her. 

Nik looks up and her anger-fueled bravado almost fails her when she meets his eyes for the first time in three and a half months. He is dressed nicer than normal, and when he stands up, Caroline’s heart stutters. 

She pushes it aside. “I need to talk to you,” she announces firmly, crossing her arms. “Now, please.” 

“Terribly rude,” she hears Kol mutter, followed by gentle thud and a sharp “ _Ow, Mum!_ ” 

Caroline doesn’t wait around for Nik to acknowledge that he heard her; she turns on her heel and heads for his room, where there is at least a reasonable expectation of privacy. 

“Caroline,” Nik begins as he shuts the door behind him, but she holds a hand up to halt the words she knows are about to start flowing out of him. 

“No,” she interrupts sharply. “I get to go first.” He falls silent immediately, hands going behind his back and his head bowing slightly. “Look at me, Nik,” she adds, voice a modicum softer. She feels the hesitation radiating off of him, but after a moment, he obeys and his eyes meet hers again. “Elijah gave me these.” Reaching into her back pocket, she pulls out a fistful of crisp cream letters and holds them out. 

“Ah,” Nik murmurs, more to himself than to her. “So he followed through on his threats.”

“Why didn’t _you_ give me these?” Caroline demands, unable to keep her voice from cracking. When he doesn’t answer, she flips one open and begins to read aloud, her hands trembling enough that the letters shake slightly. “Dear Caroline, I can’t imagine what I did in a past life to have deserved you, someone so beautiful, strong, and full of light; but I can describe with painful accuracy what I did in this one to lose you. Dear Caroline, I curse every day that takes me further from being with you. Dear Caroline, I cannot being to compose an apology such as you deserve—"

“I remember what they say,” Nik cuts in, one hand going to straighten his tie. 

“Why didn’t you _send_ them?” she cries out, thrusting the letters at him. “Four months, Nik, nearly _four fucking_ months of not hearing from you, and this entire time, you had _these_ , what, just sitting under your bed? Gathering dust?”

“Because!” and now he is shouting back at her, “they are all true!” The low hum of voices outside the door stops. Cursing, Nik shakes his head and lowers his voice. “What I said to you at Christmas,” he continues lowly, “was unforgivable. Those,” he gestures at the paper in her hand, “were never meant to see the light of day.”

“Then why even write them?” she asks softly. 

Nik exhales heavily and rubs the back of his neck. “Catharsis, I suppose.” 

“Catharsis,” she repeats incredulously. “Seriously?”

He looks up sharply. “As I said. Unforgivable.” 

“But Nik,” Caroline whispers, “You didn’t even _try_.” She sits down on the edge of his bed, suddenly drained of all her energy, anger-fueled or otherwise. “If you had sent these, just _one_ of these—” she shakes her head, unable to comprehend. “Why didn’t you just send one?” 

He sits down next to her and Caroline finds herself fascinated by the tiny space between their knees. “I am the author of my own sabotage,” he says quietly. “That is the way it has always been.” 

“Is that what _he_ made you think?” Caroline asks waspishly. “Your mom told me, by the way. About your—your parentage, and about what he said to you when you went to see him.” She scowls at the space in front of her. “A real fuckstick, your dad.” 

Nik gives a surprised laugh; it tears at her heart at how rusty it sounds. “You’re not wrong,” he concedes. “He was quite the master of manipulation.” 

Caroline snorts. “Yeah, well, with a name like Michael Mikaelson, he was bound to be a total tool.” She hesitates before venturing quietly, “He made you think you were completely irredeemable, and that—that just isn’t the case, Nik. But...you do have to _ask_. This—this self-flagellation you’re doing, it’s not good for you.”

Nik is quiet, his expression somber. “I’m afraid I never learned how to stop,” he says finally. Tentatively, as though any sudden movement might send her sprinting for the door, he reaches for her hand. 

She lets him take it. 

“Caroline,” he says, and her name on his lips has her body canting towards him of its own volition before she can restrain herself. “You did not deserve the things I said to you, and you would be well within your rights to never forgive me for them.” His thumb strokes the back of her hand idly, as though he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “You are not vapid, nor frivolous—you may be, in fact, the best person that I know.”

She inhales sharply, but he isn’t finished. “I wrote one hundred different letters, with one hundred different apologies, and none of them felt adequate. I...I know that we cannot pick up where we left off, but I had hoped that perhaps we could start over.” 

Caroline is silent for a long time. “No,” she says finally. “No, I don’t think so.”

The only outward reaction he has is to flinch ever so slightly; his face remains perfectly composed. “I see.” 

“I don’t want to pick up where we left off, either.” 

Nik lets go of her hand and shifts away from her. “I understand,” he says and she can hear the current of self-loathing running through the words. 

“I don’t think you do,” she says softly, turning slightly to take his face in her hands and touching her forehead to his. The letters lay scattered behind them, forgotten. “I don’t want to start over, or pick up where we left off, because I want to move forward. With you.” 

The moment stretches between them, and slowly, as though he can’t quite believe it, a smile breaks over Nik’s face. 

.

.

.

“I don’t like it,” Damon announces, crossing his arms and shooting a glare out of the kitchen window towards Nik’s house. Elena catches her look and rolls her eyes behind his back. 

“I don’t like _you_ ,” Caroline retorts haughtily, though there’s no true venom in her tone. “And you don’t get a vote anyway.” 

A brief rapt at the door interrupts them; Caroline shoots a final glare in Damon’s direction before heading to answer it. “Be nice,” she warns over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Care,” Elena says firmly, “He will be.” 

“You’re okay with this?” she hears Damon demand. “She’s _your_ best friend.” 

“Yeah, and an adult,” Elena shoots back tartly.

Rolling her eyes, Caroline pulls the door open, gently pushing Milo back with her foot, only to be greeted by a beautiful bouquet of soft pink peonies in Nik’s hands.

“Nik!” she exclaims, taking them and inhaling deeply. “You didn’t have to, seriously.” She sends him a slightly shy smile. 

He shifts on his feet, and if Caroline didn’t know better, she’d think he seemed nervous. “I still have quite a bit of making up to do,” he says quietly. 

Caroline pulls him inside, meeting Elena’s eyes over the blooms. Elena smiles slyly at her before pulling Damon past them. “That’s our cue,” she says cheerfully, nearly dragging a protesting Damon after her out the door. 

Carefully arranging the flowers in a vase, Caroline says casually, “You know this isn’t how forgiveness works right? You don’t have to, like, keep proving how sorry you are for it to, like, stick, or something.” 

“The concept is not entirely foreign,” Nik acknowledges, “although I would argue that I’ve only just begun to make amends.” 

She shrugs, smiling down into her flowers. “I like tulips too,” she offers.

Strong arms slide around her waist, and she feels his nose in her hair. “I’ll make a note,” he murmurs in her ear. “May I take you to dinner tonight? Fat Tuesday’s, usual booth?” 

Caroline leans backwards, relaxing into his warmth. “Let me just clear my busy schedule,” she hums. 

.

.

.

Long after dinner is over, they sit together in his backyard, Caroline’s fingers laced with his and Milo snoring softly nearby. 

“Remind me,” Nik says, his eyes on the ink black sky, “to thank Elijah for not minding his own business.”

Caroline laughs, the sound of it waking Milo. “I will,” she promises. “”I’m sure he won’t let you forget it, either.” 

Nik sighs with faux heaviness. “I suppose it’s worth it,” he muses, “to be with the woman I love.” 

“Mhm,” she agrees with a smile. “I would say it is.”

He smiles at her, and she smiles back as a warm spring breeze blows. 

.

.

.

**fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Writing this has helped brighten up my quarantine, and I hope you've enjoyed. (Now I have no excuse to not finish 'the birth and death of the day.')
> 
> As always, you can find me (and my adventures in growing yeast) on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sunnydaisy6) and [Tumblr](https://little-miss-sunny-daisy.tumblr.com/).


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